


Party Aliens

by Daegaer



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Adams
Genre: Alcohol, Aliens, Established Relationship, Humour, M/M, Party, celebration, that remarkable book The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-04
Updated: 2010-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Ford attend a party thrown by the editors of <i>The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Party Aliens

'Come on, Arthur,' Ford said, cheerfully pushing his way into the crowd in the main room. He homed in on the imposing table with the impressive array of drinks on it, waited until the waiters' backs were turned, and grabbed a bottle and two glasses. 'Here we are . . .n't,' he said, turning to where Arthur wasn't behind him. He retraced his steps, and found Arthur huddled outside the door, looking scandalised. This was quite a normal expression for Arthur to wear upon seeing him, so he didn't worry over much, and just filled a glass for Arthur, holding it out politely.

'Ford!' Arthur said.

'Cheers,' Ford said, and swigged some alcohol from the bottle. He coughed. 'Nice,' he gasped. 'You should probably only have one glass of this.'

'Ford!' Arthur said again. He sipped at his drink and went the sort of colour that porridge really shouldn't be. 'My heart's stopped,' he whimpered piteously.

Ford patted him on the back till he felt a bit better, and took his drink away before he could make the mistake of having any more of it.

'I'll find something else, shall I?' Ford asked. 'Something with a little less kick than a Retullian Kangaroo?'

Arthur nodded dimly.

* * *

_The_ Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy _notes that the Retullian Kangaroo, along with the Zarling Mega-Grasshopper and the members of the rugby team of an antipodean nation where one of the Guide's researchers spent a more than usually drunken eighteen months while extensively investigating a hitherto unopened holiday spot situated out on the Western Spiral Arm of the Galaxy, have the most developed leg muscles of any creatures known. It is strongly advised that hitchhikers do not get involved in kickboxing contests with any of these creatures._

* * *

When Ford returned, bottles of Altairian brandy in hand, Arthur felt sufficiently strong to start again.

'Ford!' he said, scandalised.

'Yes?' Ford asked, handing him a tumbler of brandy.

'Ford, I'm not going in there,' Arthur said. 'There are people, and, and _things_ \--'

'Other people,' Ford said round the neck of the bottle.

' -- I don't care how many times you say that, I'm not convinced,' Arthur snapped. 'But for the sake of argument, there are - various people - in there. Having sex!'

Ford looked at him uncomprehendingly. Arthur clenched his fists, and found one hand was still holding his drink. He took a mouthful and clenched the other fist.

'In public!' he said in outrage.

Ford looked at him uncomprehendingly again. He gave the air of waiting for Arthur to get to the point. After some time, he shrugged and drank more of the brandy.

'It's a _Guide_ party, Arthur,' he said. 'A work do. It's not exactly a full scale orgy.'

Arthur didn't look mollified, especially when some of the guests wandering in and out felt him up as they passed.

'Well, it's not,' Ford said, a touch defensively. 'You have to wait for the annual share-holders' bash for that.' He looked at Arthur's expression and smiled winningly. 'And we'd never get invited to that, so you don't have to worry.'

'I'm going,' Arthur said, and turned huffily away.

Ford grabbed him and spun him round.

'Don't be so silly. Look, just come in and let me show you off. You'll be fine after another few drinks.' He grinned in an evil manner at Arthur. 'Anyway, why are you so shocked? It's not like people didn't have sex at Earth parties.'

'In bedrooms or behind closed doors, maybe,' Arthur hissed. 'Not in the middle of the dance floor.'

Ford blinked.

'Really? That would explain a lot.' He grabbed Arthur's glass and drained it, ignoring Arthur's protests. 'Look, we've finished the brandy. Why don't I get us something else, something that we can drink in a nice, civilised manner --'

Arthur snorted sarcastically. Ford ignored him.

' -- and some food, and we can sit out here, if you really don't want to go in,' Ford finished.

'Really?' Arthur said. 'You don't mind?'

'Hey, free booze and food is free booze and food no matter where you have it. And I can say hello to my colleagues when they pass us on their way to the loos,' Ford said. 'I'll be back before you know I'm gone.'

He wasn't quite that fast, but within an impressively short space of time, Arthur was tucking happily into a large platter of assorted party foods and drinking what Ford said was the least alcoholic thing he could find. It was a deep cerise in colour, syrupy in consistency and smelled like flowers on steroids. Despite the fact that drinking it made Arthur fear for his masculinity, he found he quite liked it.

'How did you persuade them to let you take a plate this size out here?' he said, standing up to reach to the other side of the platter.

'I just hit one of the caterers on the head and caught it as he fell,' Ford said deadpan. After a few seconds he grinned maniacally at Arthur's worried face. 'You're incredibly gullible, aren't you? No Dendrassi were harmed in the provision of your dinner, Arthur. No assault involved. Theft, yes, assault, no. I do have _some_ morals.'

'Huh,' Arthur said, chewing on what he fervently hoped were shrimp arranged artistically on a cracker. 'It must be my influence.'

'Oh, yes,' Ford smiled, putting an arm round him, 'you have a very positive effect on me, Arthur.'

'Stop it,' Arthur said, as Ford nuzzled into his hair. 'It's not nice.'

'What? No one on Earth ever even kissed someone in public?' Ford said, giggling.

'Not me,' Arthur said, trying to ignore the incredulous laughter beside him. 'And if I did, it was different.'

'Ah,' Ford said solemnly, 'because it involved members of your own species or because they were female?'

'Er,' Arthur said, suddenly aware he was quite close to being rather rude to Ford. 'No, er. It was just different, all right?'

He took a deep drink to cover his confusion, and Ford smiled widely. Arthur lowered his glass suspiciously. Ford's smiles were usually crazy and worrying. This one was crazy, worrying and calculating.

'Look, if you're planning on getting me drunk so you can take public advantage of me --' Arthur said.

'Me? Good heavens, Arthur, I'm extremely distressed that you could even think such a thing,' Ford said, his injured tone clashing rather horribly with his crazier by the second smile.

' -- it's not going to work, OK? For a start, this isn't actually strong enough to get me that drunk. There is _some_ alcohol in this, right?'

'This is a _Guide_ party, Arthur. There's alcohol in the water.'

'Well, there's not enough alcohol,' Arthur said, throwing the contents of his glass back and getting himself a refill. 'And even if there was, by the time I was drunk enough to even begin to start thinking that maybe I might one day contemplate such an action, I'd have long since been incapable or passed out. So you see, you're out of luck.'

'Theoretically only one of us has to be conscious,' Ford said, tracing the outline of Arthur's ear with his forefinger. He paused and said carefully, 'you do know that was a joke, right, Arthur? It's no fun if you're not conscious.'

'That's what passes for an apology for tasteless comments on Betelgeuse, is it?' Arthur snorted, leaning into the tickling caress.

Ford laughed and began kissing Arthur's ear. Arthur waved his hand around as if Ford was a particularly annoying fly buzzing round his head. Both of them got rather drenched with Arthur's drink in the process.

'Cut it out, Ford, stop it, mmm, that's nice, no, stop it.'

Ford began working his way down Arthur's throat, pinning the hand with the glass to avoid further drenchings.

'I'm telling you, by the time I'd be drunk enough to even consider it, I'd be comatose,' Arthur said, wrestling his hand free and drinking what remained in the glass. He lifted his chin to make it easier for Ford to kiss and nip at him, and felt rather put out when Ford stopped what he was doing.

'Silly monkey physiology,' Ford breathed in his ear, 'Don't you worry, I've taken care of that.'

Arthur felt what he would have liked to think of as icy water trickle down his spine. He had to admit it was far more likely to be some of what had been in his glass when he had showered both of them with sweet, scented liquid. He raised the now empty glass to eye level, and looked at it narrowly.

'Ford,' he asked, 'what's in this drink of yours?'

'Nothing harmful,' Ford said, trying to undress him. 'I checked.'

'But what _is_ it?' Arthur insisted, finding to his horror that he seemed to be co-operating.

'Just something to help you relax, get in the party spirit,' Ford muttered, in between licks at Arthur's shoulders.

'But I don't want to get in the party spirit!' Arthur said as Ford folded his dressing gown into a rough pillow and shoved him down. 'I'm not a _Hitchhiker's Guide_ party spirit sort of person - oh, _God_, do that again - can't we just go and have a nice cup of tea, Ford? Ford? Kiss me, Ford.' He quite forgot to protest over the next several minutes, as it was suddenly far more important to concentrate on the feel of Ford's tongue against his. When Ford finally raised his head to smile lazily at Arthur, it took him a few seconds to remember what he'd been protesting about. He licked his lips, trying to gather his thoughts, which were immediately scattered by Ford kissing him again. 'Ford,' he gasped, when Ford went back to smiling triumphantly at him, 'Ford, I don't want --'

'Shh. Then we won't,' Ford said, smiling. 'Really, Arthur, you have to learn to trust me at least a little. Well, occasionally anyway.'

'No,' Arthur said frantically, 'I mean I don't want you to stop.'

'Oh, thank _Zarquon_,' Ford groaned, 'you have no idea what it would cost me to be considerate, Arthur.' He frantically pulled at the cord of Arthur's pyjama bottoms and shoved a hand inside.

'Fingernails!' Arthur squeaked.

'Sorry, sorry,' Ford said, grappling him into a tight clinch and kissing him again, while settling his hand down into a steady rhythm.

Arthur closed his eyes and did his best not to think. This was remarkably easy, for while part of his brain was screaming in a scandalised fashion, _I'm having sex in public with an alien on the floor at an office party_, by far the largest part of his brain was yelling, _Shut up, Dent!_ at the first part, and then concentrating solely on what Ford was doing. In situations like this the larger part of his brain usually won out, because if the smaller, outraged part of his brain got its way then Ford would stop, and Ford was good, really good, as only someone with decade upon decade of wide-ranging and probably illegal experience could be. Arthur opened his eyes and frowned. He wondered how old Ford was, really? If the topic ever came up, Ford just grinned and acted like he thought Arthur would be upset at the answer. It was quite puzzling, when he thought about it -- at this point the larger and more frantic part of his brain, while it applauded the sneak attack and the innovative methods used by the other part of his brain, rebelled and beat his capacity for rational thought into a bloody pulp. By the time Ford's experienced and obliging fingers sent him over the edge what was between his ears most closely resembled extremely gleeful primordial soup.

As he lay there, bonelessly satisfied, Arthur dimly registered he was being undressed fully, and he opened his eyes and smiled vaguely to see Ford hurriedly discarding his own clothing in an untidy collection of heaps around them. Then Ford was lying full length on him and kissing him again, which was _very_ nice, and stroking and kissing his way down Arthur's body, which was even nicer. It was rather like being seduced by a large, agile and determined hot water bottle, as Ford's body temperature was several degrees higher than a human's.

'Ungh. Too much. Too soon,' Arthur said, thinking that while death by oral sex might be a good way to go, expiring at the _Guide's_ office party might get Ford fired, and that would be sad.

'OK,' Ford said, and got onto his knees and looked round, his eyes fastening on a party guest who was poking at what remained of the platter of food he had stolen.

'Excuse me,' he said, 'is there butter or margarine on that sandwich?'

The guest peered inside the sandwich it was holding in one of its paws.

'Butter,' it said.

'Great! I hate margarine,' Ford said. 'Could I borrow that for a moment?'

He snatched the proffered sandwich, disassembled it, wiped himself thoroughly with butter, reassembled the sandwich and held it out again.

'Er, no thanks,' the guest said. 'You can have that one.'

'Thanks,' Ford said, dropping the sandwich and lifting Arthur's legs up, kissing the spot on the right knee where a long-ago accident during an attempt to follow one of the many scone recipes expounded on a children's television programme had left a nasty scar. Arthur made a most appreciative noise as Ford entered him, and Ford did his best to hold back the pleased giggle. It always put Arthur off his stride, for some reason. For his part, Arthur felt rather grateful for Ford's gesture towards circumspect behaviour. Not, his blearily reawakening brain informed him, that there was anything in the slightest way circumspect about what Ford was currently doing, which was rocking back and forth, thrusting into Arthur in a way that Arthur felt he could be properly and fully complimented on later, when there weren't so many passers-by passing by.

'That's very,' Arthur said, in a voice that didn't seem quite his own.

'Thanks,' Ford said breathlessly. He quickened his pace a bit. 'Yeah, very,' he muttered, mainly to himself. He saw that Arthur was watching him and winked. 'Hey, baby,' he said cheerfully.

'You don't look like an alien,' Arthur said, as if it was a terribly profound statement.

'I'm not,' Ford said, his breath shortening, 'I'm a citizen of the Republic or Empire or whatever the hell we -- _Zarquon_!' When he looked up from where he had unaccountably collapsed on top of Arthur, his gaze focused on the photographer standing behind Arthur's head, grinning and putting her camera out of reach of easy vandalising. Ford was terribly glad that (a) she was standing behind Arthur, who didn't seem to have noticed her, and (b) that given Arthur's expression, his Babel fish would need to provide subtitles as well as simply translating for him.

'If that's going in the Newsletter, send my copy to my home address, OK?' Ford said in Praxibetel. 'And give me a print of it.'

'Sure thing, Mr Prefect,' the photographer said. 'Um, Mr Prefect, I've always been a fan of your writing and I was wondering --'

'Sure, baby,' Ford said, propping himself up.

'What are you doing?' Arthur said sleepily from beneath him.

'Signing autographs,' Ford said casually. 'Actors on Earth also did it after great performances.'

'You were a rubbish actor,' Arthur said, holding on tight and smiling. 'But it _was_ a great performance.'


End file.
